


Sirens

by Winterswild



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Justice, Magic, Murder, Prophetic Visions, Prose Poem, Supernatural Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29661384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterswild/pseuds/Winterswild
Summary: Piccolo uses his left over visions to try to do some good, but it isn't always a pleasant job, and no one can know.
Kudos: 3





	Sirens

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Dragonball Z

Cool air graced the road surface, its spicy fingers had a lingering scent that made the darkness vibrant. But the air was ignorant of the city’s inhabitants tonight. Like every night, when the most played tune was the sound of sirens and gunshots, people hitting the asphalt with crying mothers in their wake. Petrol and Diesel still carried in the night’s mouth, as if it were spitting out the fumes in disgust at mankind’s behaviour of late. Much like Piccolo was, as his sensitive ears identified the familiar noise, the expected tirade. 

Sirens.

Occasionally there would be laughter, hushed voices, and people thanking bus drivers but not today. Even flying flags had given it a rest, dedicating their patriotism to something else instead. This city, like any other, had a raging underbelly of pain. The Namek felt it daily, in his head, in his chest, his heart reading feelings like he had nothing better to do. Of course he could ignore it, or had tried to, at least. There was nothing therapeutic about taking the role given to him by chance, by acting as the day’s chariot, but the night’s beast. Slouching towards victory like it might feel good, but nothing came of it, in the end. It was never enough.

And the sirens.

His particular nature meant that at the sound of a child’s scream he would get their first, and hopefully before anything terrible took place. Even as fast as he was, regrettably, he was sometimes too late. As painful as it is, he let those falling to their deaths by choice continue their terrible journey. Sometimes dodging their falling bodies as he flew, it was happening so often now he had almost gotten used to the sight of someone crushed into the floor. Gohan had spent some time trying to help this forgotten town, but even his heart couldn’t bear it for long. He had a daughter now.

The sound of the sirens grew.

When he had fused with his better half he had expected a change, for sure, but had not expected this. If he’d have known he’d be left with an unreachable itch, he might have thought twice, told him to fuck off. Gone to Cell for a merciful death. Not that he’d had much of a choice at the time. The night had barely begun and already the nightmare had spread, inside his moving ribs he could feel the badness wail. The face of another perpetrator he didn’t know, lingered in his mind like the toxic fabric of a nuclear war. This gift had not been a gift, of that he had been sure. Gohan often asked him what he did with his time and he always laughed underneath his breath because he could never tell the boy. I meditate and train, of course.

Except when I hear the sirens.

Then I make a noise. Being nocturnal had been easy enough, despite his Namekian genes preferring an eternal light, not dreary nights. Someone had to rally and deal with the death, and he knew somewhere up on the clouds Dende could, but he would not allow the boy to be dealt such a shit hand. Not as long as he lived would he let another, not even Vegeta, who had probably been one of them once. The Demon King had a debt to pay larger than most. So here he was, cashing in his cheque of obedience to pay it in kind to those who could not fend for themselves. 

The sirens called.

He landed softly, silently, behind a lingering fool. A knife in his hand, not bloody yet, but only by chance had he been quick enough to get there first. Still by the collar of his shirt he wriggled and moaned.

“Please don’t kill me”

Ironic that murderers are the biggest cowards of all. A swift fist through the abdomen did the job well and the man’s body dropped, allowing his victim to flee, thinking she was next. It didn’t matter. He had a job to do. If someone had explained what a Seer was, surely they didn’t mean this, but here he was. In a way he was grateful at least, it wasn’t as if he could protect the Earth or venture into space looking for trouble, before it inevitably made its way here. That was Goku’s job. The blood on his hands felt right because he had seen it a thousand times before. He was a monster anyway, so finding them came easier than forcing a smile, or a handshake. 

Dende closed his eyes, because he could too, hear the sirens.

He hated these nights, when he watched Piccolo from the heavens, scouring the Earth for people unrepentant. He knew the visions were blinding and hard to ignore, but he had hoped the older Namek would be better at keeping it at bay. Keeping it a secret, in the dark, where it belongs. Kami’s are unfortunate enough to have the gift of sight, but the power to do nothing, whereas Piccolo could see just as much and actually _ had _ the power to do everything. He tried to feel lucky at being spared this horrid job, but only cried at night because his friend was losing himself. He had forgotten to be careful and had turned into something that he couldn’t even see when he was paying attention. 

He watched as Piccolo ignored the sirens.

Watched as Piccolo tried to close his eyes against the burning that always came, because he wasn’t as evil as he tried to be. He neared a door, this time some notice had allowed him a moment to observe the house from the outside. It was run down, but not empty, hollow but heavy. All the worst humans had houses like this, as if they only felt comfortable around things also rotting. Dark on the inside, he could sympathise, he himself had once sought out charcoal and fire just to feel more at home. His keen ears picked up the sound of footsteps inside, light but an awkward gait, likely a male. Sweet smells that were revolting peeked out from the cracked window, from the chimney, from between the frame. He frowned but was unperturbed, he knew the smell of burning flesh so at least he wouldn’t be surprised. This one had haunted him for weeks before he saw the colour of his door. He knocked, and it sounded as deep a bass as his own voice. 

There’d be no time for sirens.

He smirked as the footsteps drew nearer, at least the universe had learned its lesson in how to get the job done. If you want to catch a killer, you should hire one. 

**W.**


End file.
